


scarred by the suns and the sand

by zeropixelcount



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, GFY, Gen, unexpected teen!anakin AU is unexpected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:05:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeropixelcount/pseuds/zeropixelcount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forget the boy; the boy is gone, replaced by a young man dressed in rags and scars, haunted eyes. Free all the slaves? That was a child’s impossible dream, gone with innocence; the man’s dream can only compass freedom for one - and she doesn’t smile like that any more, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scarred by the suns and the sand

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks & due credit must go to Flamethrower for any number of things, including dragging me back into SW fandom after nearly two decades, and for the idea of Shmi and Obi-Wan having trader backgrounds (which I then ran off with in a somewhat different direction, culturally-speaking). And probably a whole bunch of accidentally-borrowed tidbits which I absorbed from Re-Entry and subconsciously assumed were EU canon.
> 
> Thanks also to Tae and M for encouragement as I dipped my toe in strange waters, and to Amemait and Lectorel for saying nice things about the first snippets I put on tumblr and thereby encouraging me to continue.

There's a human working just inside the junk-yard gate, up to the elbows in a speeder's engine; he's naked to the waist, and it's obviously customary, his grease-smeared skin evenly weathered and tanned by the suns and the sand, not to mention heavily scarred. Part punishment, part accident, if Qui-Gon doesn't miss his mark. His hair is a ragged blond mop, not quite long enough to conceal the steel collar around his neck, and he's whipcord-thin in a way that speaks of hard labour and hard living. Mos Espa's dregs; the Outer Rim isn't kind to those it deems disposable.

None of which is any reason not to be polite. "Hello?" Qui-Gon calls. "We're looking for Ikku?"

The ragged, gaunt figure straightens up and turns towards them, and oh -

\- _oh_. _This_ is what the Force has been pulling him towards, because this -

\- he's probably no older than seventeen or eighteen standard, assuming he's full-human; his eyes are burning coals in the sunken hollows of his face, and he's holding the Force wrapped around him tighter than wire on a spool. 

Qui-Gon isn't sure he even knows he's doing it; _surely_ he can't be trained. Not out here. And not if he's the human chattel his collar proclaims him to be. 

There's bitterness shot through that tightly-controlled aura; bitterness and fear, shading towards hate; Darkened, certainly, but not, he thinks, Fallen. Thank the Force. Because untrained or not, he's an absolute _powerhouse_ of Force energy.

Really, Qui-Gon's only wondering how - by all that's holy and a few things that aren't - the slavers have ever managed to keep him at heel.

 

"This way, please," the young man tells them, with a lightness to his tone that feels forced and is entirely at odds with what Qui-Gon's sensing from him. 

He casts a sideways glance at Padmé as the young man leads them through the maze of storage bins and stacked parts; she's staring after him with worryingly wide eyes, and it occurs to Qui-Gon to wonder how far the education and training of a Mid-Rim politician's bodyguard-aide covers the Outer Rim and the uses and abuses its denizens put each other to. 

 

 _At heel_ the young man plainly is; he shows them into the small building that seems to be the main office with his head bowed and a meek, "customers to see you, Master."

The office's sole occupants are a richly-dressed Rodian in a float chair - Ikku himself, Qui-Gon presumes - who sets down a sheaf of flimsiplasts and gives them a measuring look, and a middle-aged human woman in a plain, worn dress, who is currently engaged in scrubbing the wall-panels, and who gives them only the quickest glance, over her shoulder, before turning back to her work.

"Offworlders, hmm? What brings you to my little corner of the world?" Ikku steeples his hands.

"I find myself in need of hyperdrive components; I am informed that your emporium has the largest inventory in Mos Espa, particularly for the Nubian models," Qui-Gon appeals to the Rodian's presumed vanity. "My droid has the details."

"Boy!" Ikku snaps his fingers, and the young man brings a data-pad over to the R2 unit.

"A T-14 hyperdrive generator, and several minor components, Master," he turns back to Ikku before saying. "All are items you have in stock."

At a gesture from his master, the young man moves, folding himself up on his knees at Ikku's feet with as little apparent emotion as any Jedi kneeling to meditate. "Master," he murmurs as he hands up the data-pad, his gaze still lowered, but he isn't keeping his resentment out of the Force as effectively as he's keeping it out of his body language.

 

Ikku makes a show of considering the data-pad. "Hmm. T-14, is it? Very rare, offworlder; very rare." He props one booted foot on the young man's bare shoulder; Qui-Gon wonders whether it's habit, or a calculated needling of his human customers. The lad certainly seems accustomed to it. "No-one else has one, that I'll wager. How about we say, hmm, fifty druggets for the lot."

Outer Rim currency conversions are simpler than the hyperspace mathematics drilled into him as a Padawan; Qui-Gon turns the numbers over in his head. "I can offer you twenty thousand Republic credits."

Ikku laughs, and makes a show of putting his other foot up, outstretched legs crossed at the ankle. "Credits, he says? Credits? The worth of Republic credits is no more than the worth of Republic law, and what is that out here, boy? What is that worth?" He nudges the young man's cheek with his boot; it's not exactly a _kick_ , but it's certainly the threat of one, and Qui-Gon is having to work to maintain his serenity. 

"Nothing, Master," the young man replies, and if it sounds calm and resigned, the Force is screaming otherwise. This young man is very, _very_ good at hiding his emotions.

As is Padmé, apparently; her face is as blankly polite as if she were wearing a mask.

It's a risk, but he sees little option; reaches out with the Force to lean on the Rodian. "I'm sure credits will be fine."

It almost takes; Ikku's expression softens for just an instant before he catches himself, eyes narrowing. "Drugget, peggat, cho-mar or barter goods."

Qui-Gon tries again; gets as far as raising his hand and "credits will -" before the Rodian's hooting laughter cuts him off; his hover-chair rocks in the air as he shakes with it. "Ohoho, no, _no_ , offworlder, oh no. You think the Great Jabba would have put this one -" another not-quite-kick at the young man - "into my care, if I were the kind of weak-minded fool you take me for? Save your tricks; your worthless credits are your own problem." 

He steeples his fingers again, making a show of thoughtfulness. "But barter, now, hmmm… Maybe you have something I would take in trade, hmm?" His eyes on Padmé make his meaning obvious, and Qui-Gon's honestly impressed she doesn't shudder; he rather suspects dealing gracefully with sleaze is part of a handmaiden's training.

"That is not an option." Qui-Gon keeps it as civil as he can, which isn't very; fortunately, perhaps, the Rodian is amused once more.

"Oho, so you stand on your principles, offworlder? I told you; no-one else has a T-14. Come back to me when you're a little more desperate, hmm?" He takes his feet off of the young man's shoulder. "See these customers out, and then get back to your work, boy."

"Yes, master."

 

It's not until they're at the junkyard gate that the young man speaks, his voice a bare murmur, lips hardly moving. "Be at the arena south entrance, three hours after second sunset, if you're interested in getting off this rock."

Padmé startles, turning towards him with her lips half-parted; Qui-Gon doesn't, but he _is_ surprised. He's been turning it over in his mind, trying to add up what barter-goods they might have aboard ship; trying _desperately_ not to think about the offer he's just been made and the fact that he's pretty sure at least one of the handmaidens would volunteer herself if she thought it would ensure the Queen's safety.

"Thank you," he murmurs, equally low, but the young man is already turning away.

 

Qui-Gon spends half the evening in meditation and the other half arguing that Padmé-the-handmaiden ought not to accompany him to the rendezvous, but the Force offers him only vague misgivings, and the Queen is adamant; his warnings only serve to compound the situation and saddle him with not just one handmaiden, but _two._ Rabé is, apparently, 'most skilled' in the martial arts. He considers taking Obi-Wan as well; decides against it. He doesn't want to scare the young man off, and four of them might look too much like a threat.

The people of Mos Espa - like most sentients, on planets this hot - seem to do business mostly around dusk and dawn, but the streets have emptied out by the time they reach the town. The temperature's dropped sharply, now that the suns have set, and Qui's glad of the cloak thrown over his robes.

The area around the arena entrance appears deserted; the great doors are shuttered, but the moonlight casts strange shadows, and you could hide a few dozen people in among the empty concession stalls. He pushes out his senses with the Force, but picks up nothing -

\- until the young man steps out of one of the shadowed doorways, wrapped in a dark cloak, closer than he was expecting. Neither of the handmaidens actually draws a weapon, but Qui thinks it comes close; there are plenty of padawans and even a few knights who don't have that deft a touch when it comes to concealing their presence in the Force.

"This way," he urges, ushering them into the shadows of a canopy meant to shelter the queueing patrons from the suns' heat, and through an unlocked door - "careful, there's a ramp down - can't risk a light -" into a dark space lit only by the standby lights of some sort of machinery. 

With the door closed behind them, the young man lights up a glow-rod, and the space turns out to be a garage housing a dismantled podracer. "We can talk here," he says. "I can get you the components you need. Ikku -" he spits the name - "is telling the truth when he says no-one else has a T-14. Not in Mos Espa, and likely not anywhere on-planet."

"You would be taking a substantial risk," Qui-Gon ventures.

The corner of the young man's mouth twitches. " _Risk,_ " he snorts. "As if there's any doubt about the consequences."

Qui-Gon nods slowly, remembering the scars he saw earlier. "What would you ask, in return?"

"That you get my mother safely off of this hell-pit of a planet." There's emotion leaking into his voice and the Force both, raw and painful, and Qui-Gon half wishes he'd never wondered how the slavers were keeping him under control; he can see the shape of it now.

"She's a slave, too?" Padmé asks, very gently; her eyes are wide as saucers.

There's defiance written plainly in the way the young man forces himself - he _is_ forcing himself, against the dictates of Force-knows-what kind of training he's had - to look her in the eye. "She's a _person_ , and her name is Shmi."

Rabé puts a hand on Padmé's arm; there's some kind of silent communication going on between them, and he can almost _see_ Padmé reaching her decision. 

"I'm Padmé," She inclines her head a very precise ten degrees forward-and-left, but her eyes are troubled. "This is Rabé," a mirrored gesture from the other handmaiden. "Pleased to meet you."

It throws him off-balance, Qui-Gon thinks, but he covers it fast. Narrows his eyes slightly, but otherwise gives little away. "Anakin," he says, voice flat, face settled into a scowl, and maintains eye contact for a moment that's slightly too long before he turns away.

"And I am Qui-Gon Jinn, of the Jedi Order," he offers, because _master_ means something quite different here, and gropes for a diplomatic way to phrase his concern. "I - had been led to believe that transmitter implants were customary -"

"They are." Anakin's voice is very neutral. 

He hesitates long enough that Qui-Gon feels he needs to continue - "I am afraid hers will -" _detonate before we reach low orbit._

"It won't," Anakin interrupts. "Detonate, I mean. Ever." Qui-Gon raises his eyebrows as high as they will go. "I'm good with electronics," Anakin snaps back. Flat. Defensive. Like he hasn't just admitted to a skill that's a death-warrant across half the Outer Rim.

Qui-Gon nods to acknowledge that.

 

There's another question, that he's trying to find the appropriate way to ask, too-aware of the possibility of stepping on sore points he can't even begin to map, but Padmé gets there first: "why not both of you?"

Anakin's face is blank, like he genuinely doesn't understand.

"She has a point," Qui-Gon presses. "You have us over a barrel; you know no-one else has a motivator, and you know we can't pay the price Ikku's asking. Why not ask us to take both of you?"

"I don't know," he says eventually, and he's lying. His face is composed, level, but his eyes flick briefly to Padmé, and the Force around him is thick and sour with the taste of his fear. 

"What do you intend to _do_ , if you stay here?" He hears himself ask.

Anakin meets his eyes for the first time, and Qui-Gon can barely hear anything for the Force screaming about what this young man should be, should have been - a Jedi, his padawan, it's an effort of will to shut down the training bond that's trying to form of its own accord - but he hears him clear enough, all the gravel and growl of a life in hell in his voice as he says, "kill them all."

 _And die on my knees in a hail of blaster-fire._ The snatch of vision is utterly compelling, down to the suns on his back and the sand under his hands and knees - and it's _not_ his own. 

Padmé and Rabé might as well not be present for all he's aware of them in that moment. "I have no doubt that they richly deserve such a fate," Qui-Gon says, very carefully, utterly unable to break eye contact, "you, however, do not."

"You know nothing about me."

"I know that you are a man who is willing to die to see another to safety."

"What are you doing?"

 _Damn it_. "I, nothing. The Force -" he hesitates, looking for the right words to explain to one unschooled. Settles for bluntness. "How well can you see the future?"

It shocks him. "I saw _you_ ," Anakin tosses back, defensive.

"The Force shows - what might be, what will be, what should be - sometimes, what _should have_ been. In another lifetime, in another universe - you should have grown up as a Jedi initiate, and become my padawan - my student. What you are sensing is - that potential. The bond in the Force that would have formed between us."

"But that never happened."

"The ways of the Force are often deeply mysterious even to the wisest and most learned of Jedi - which I certainly do not claim to be. I can't explain this - " least of all, he can't explain how _both_ Obi-Wan and Anakin can have been _meant_ to be his padawans, when there can only be a year or two between them, at best - "I can only say that the connection you feel is the will of the Force, in which there is always some good purpose. Trust your feelings, Anakin."

"Huh. Feelings." It's Anakin who finally breaks eye contact, and it's possible his gaze tracks to Padmé for a moment before he looks down. 

"Come with us, Anakin," she implores. "Do you think your mother could ever be happy, knowing she'd left you here?"

He's hesitating. Rabé's giving her fellow handmaiden a concerned look.

"You have my word - as a Jedi, and as teacher - " he catches himself in time - "to a padawan not much older than you, that I will do everything in my power to take your mother and yourself to safety on Coruscant." For what that's worth; Qui-Gon wonders who - apart from, perhaps, his mother - he's ever been able to trust. 

"If I get you the motivator." 

Qui-Gon offers him a wry smile. "Without that, my power to take anyone _anywhere_ is going to be rather limited."

 

* * *

 

Master Qui-Gon is keeping his own counsel. Which most likely means he's planning something breathtakingly risky and decidedly unconventional. Also deeply compassionate and guided-by-the-will-of-the-Force, which goes without saying, and which is likely to be the closest thing they're likely to get to a saving grace when they come to explain themselves before the Council.

Obi-Wan is honestly not surprised when 'rescuing slaves' turns out to feature fairly highly in his master's plan. He's not really surprised when the plan - at least for the two of them - involves nothing directly related to obtaining the hyperdrive parts, either; not happy, but not surprised.

"But master - how do we know if we can trust this man? How do we know if he can do what he says?"

Qui-Gon slips his hands inside the sleeves of his robe, the picture of a Jedi Master with a lesson to impart. "I have faith, padawan. Faith in Anakin, and faith in the Force which guided me to him." He pauses. "Consider: he has entrusted to us the part of the mission most important to him; how does _he_ know he can trust _us_?"

 _We are Jedi_ , Obi-Wan wants to reply, but what does that really mean, out here? "He doesn't."

"Mmm. And consider, padawan - how do we _learn_ to trust?"

"As infants in the creche, master," it's a catechism, rote response, but the words are heavy in his mouth, "when our needs are met, and we find ourselves warm and safe, and are comforted in the Force." He pauses, in case Qui-Gon has something to add. "I see, master."

It seems that admission-of-understanding was what Qui-Gon was waiting for; he nods approvingly. "Exactly, padawan. We are Jedi, yes, and scant grace that buys us in Hutt territory. If any Jedi has set foot in Mos Espa in his lifetime, I shall be very surprised. And somewhat disappointed; anyone who paused to meditate should have felt his potential from across the town, if not the planet - but that is rather beside the point." He spreads his hands palm-upward, dismissing the thought. "He stands to lose rather more than we, in this exchange. And we have a luxury he lacks."

"More than _one_ , master," Obi-Wan can't help but amend.

"Mmmh." Qui-Gon nods, solemn. "I was, however, speaking of our faith in the Force, padawan."

"But master, didn't you say he _uses_ the Force?"

"He does, after a fashion. I doubt he truly knows he's doing it."

 

* * *

 

_Urssh guards the dorms at night; he's a big guy even for a gammorean, one chipped tusk, shoulders like a bantha - he's mean, but he's pretty suggestible. Ikku uses him because he's not interested in anyone Ikku wants to keep undamaged; humans, twi'leks, togruta - we're all too scrawny for his taste._

_Ikku often sends for - well, mostly the girls, the younger ones, but Urssh doesn't understand near-human ageing - you should be able to convince him you've been sent for Mother easily enough._

 

The gammorean's big, all right, as tall as Qui-Gon if not taller, and ugly to boot; he stands in the doorway with his arms folded over the head of his axe. He grunts a question what might be his own language, Huttese, or even particularly garbled Basic.

Context makes it obvious enough, though. "Ah, Urssh," Qui-Gon arranges an insincere smile, going for Huttese in the hope that it will reinforce his pose as part of Tatooine's criminal underworld; "it's been a while, hasn't it? Good to see you're well," and he's not really exerting the Force yet, not strongly enough to have any real influence, but it's got the gammorean off-guard, puzzled and trying to hide it, thinking he must know Qui-Gon from somewhere. 

"Ikku sent us for the human female called Shmi," he pushes harder, hiding the accompanying gesture in among the random twitches typical of a spice addict in early-stage withdrawal.

"You don't come in, human," Urssh replies in broadly-comprehensible Huttese, making a warding gesture before closing the door in his face.

Qui-Gon waits.

 

Obi-Wan's in the alley a little further down, close enough to help if needed but out of sight; at nineteen standard, he's far too fresh-faced for what Qui-Gon's pretending to be, and it never hurts to hide your cards. He's a little nervous; Qui-Gon can feel it through the training bond. It's understandable, really. This is the riskiest part of the whole enterprise, the gammorean and Anakin's mother both out of their sight, and only the young man's word for it that the surveillance in the slave dormitory will be offline. Qui-Gon feels him reaching for one of the standing meditations to control his breathing and heart-beat, and lets his approval flow briefly into the bond.

 

Shmi, it turns out, is the woman from Ikku's office. The expression on her face when Urssh leads her out is more resigned than afraid, and if her eyes widen when she recognises Qui-Gon, she shows no other sign of surprise. 

"Here." Urssh shoves her forward; when she stumbles, Qui-Gon takes her upper arm in a rough grip and silently vows to apologise later. "She no hurt. You hurt on way, Ikku know. You pay."

Qui-Gon gives the gammorean a curt nod of acknowledgement and starts them moving; Shmi wears only a rough tunic and sandals, it's cold enough that she's already shivering, and there's nothing he can do about it until they're out of sight of the compound.

 

Obi-Wan falls in a little way behind them as they pass the mouth of the alley; Shmi gives the boy a startled, frightened glance over her shoulder, but still doesn't say anything until they turn at the end of the block, out towards the edge of town.

Even then, she sounds surprisingly collected as she says, "this isn't the way to -" and she stops, as though her thoughts have overtaken her, and now there _is_ fear in her voice - "what has Ani _done_?"

"It's alright," Qui-Gon tells her, and Obi-Wan, catching up, is already shrugging out of his cloak to offer it to her. _She'll swim in yours, master._ "We are Jedi of the Order, and we are here to escort you to safety."

"You were at the yard. You needed - Ikku wouldn't sell. Neither would _you_ , when he hinted at it." There's growing steel in her voice. " _Where is my son_? _"_

"He will be meeting us at our ship," Qui-Gon says soothingly.

"And master, we should get moving if we want to avoid trouble," Obi-Wan adds, prompting them both to start walking again. 

Shmi's expression is shrewd. "I ask again, master Jedi, and please do not evade me this time: where is my son?"

"At precisely this moment, I do not know -" he holds up a hand to forestall her objection; at _precisely this moment_ he is regretting not allowing that Force-driven training bond to form - "and that is not an evasion, lady. He did not share the details of his plan to obtain the hyperdrive components we require."

She's nodding before he's halfway through, concern writ plain across her wind- and sand-weathered face. "Oh, Ani," she sighs, clearly to herself. "He always did -" her voice trails off into an uneasy silence, and Qui-Gon lets her be; he has no reassurance to offer. "Thank you," she murmurs, as she reaches out - finally - to accept the cloak Obi-Wan's been trying to offer her.

He can feel his padawan's disquiet through the training bond, and hers, more faintly, through proximity, but neither of them are the source; there's something else here. Something out of balance, a sour, discordant note in the harmonies of the Force.

They're almost at the ship when that vague sense of unease resolves itself into actual danger; the whine of a speeder engine, and just enough time to realise that the cloaked figure riding it isn't Anakin, to call out - "run to the ship, Shmi -" before he and Obi-Wan are fighting for their lives.

 

Observations: Singular opponent. Lightsaber. Red. Knows how to use it. Zabrak, possibly; heavily tattooed, if he is. Darkened, certainly. 

_Force_. Not a lightsaber, a light _staff_. Upgrade to: _really_ knows how to use it.

 

Realisation, too late: the Jedi don't _train_ for this. They think they do, but they don't. Qui-Gon's a better-than-fair duellist - admission without pride - and his padawan's damned promising, they'll take down armoured thugs with blasters - even droidekas - without breaking a sweat, but the only saber combat they ever do is _sparring,_ as much moving meditation as combat. It isn't the same.

 

Observation: Their opponent does not share their handicap.

 

Question: What is the duty of a master to their padawan? Answer: To protect, to guide, to teach, and to cherish.

Question: Why must a master protect their padawan? Answer: Because our padawans are our future.

Question: How must a master protect their padawan? Answer: With word, with deed, with blade and with body.

 

Imperative: focus on _me_ , you sith-spawn _bastard_.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan notices, of course. He's been Qui-Gon's padawan long enough to know his fighting style, know his moves; it's not like he can't tell that they're not exactly winning, and he can't _not_ notice that his master's fighting now not to make an opening, but to give _him_ one. 

He's played enough dejarik to know the gambit when he sees it, and he wants to scream a denial through the bond but daren't risk distracting his master and _causing_ the very death he wants to deny. He's shielding as best he can, fighting as hard as he can, first to find a way, _any_ way, to save Qui-Gon from the fate he's choosing; second, to keep his own blasted defences up against this whirlwind of anger and darkness.

 

Later, they'll realise what they were doing. In the instant, all he knows is this: the next strike, and that Qui-Gon won't make the parry. He's supposed to take the opening that leaves, but he blocks the attack instead, over-extending himself to do it, and now they're both out of position and off-balance as the future shifts and -

\- and then there's a crack, like an HT circuit closing, and the enemy is falling, though neither of them have laid a blow on him, leaving another hooded stranger standing behind him with a bloody knife in his hand and murder in his eyes.

 

Obi-Wan drags himself back to the ready position, unable to take his eyes off this stranger. _The enemy of my enemy is not necessarily my friend;_ it's a Trader proverb, not a Jedi one, but no less true for it - he can feel both anger and power rolling off the man in waves, and he _didn't_ feel him approach, and he's staring at Obi-Wan like he's trying to wonder whether he needs to kill _him_ too -

\- " _Anakin_ ," Qui-Gon says, from behind him, and _this_ is the helpless slave-boy he's taken it upon himself to rescue? Is his master suddenly Force-blind, not to see the Darkness, the danger, the deaths, the possible futures hanging dark, dark, _Dark_ around this man -

\- "stand down, Obi-Wan," brush of Qui-Gon's hand on his shoulder as he steps past him, "he's a friend."

"Yes, master," Obi-Wan replies, deactivating his lightsaber -

\- and what was a passive sense of threat surges into active danger.

 

* * *

 

Anakin's sudden tension boils outward into the Force, like ink poured in water, and Qui-Gon curses himself for lack-of-forethought; there's a world of difference between the courtesy offered from a padawan to his master, and the enforced servility of a slave, but to an outside ear, shorn of context -

\- they're the _same damned words._

"An honorific only," he says, as calming as he can make it without actually employing the Force - he's far from certain the lad wouldn't notice - "Obi-Wan is a free man, I promise you; our Order holds slavery to be reprehensible, and the Republic outlaws it." Maintaining eye contact is a problem; that damned training bond still wants to form, and he has to keep fighting it down. "The term is - customary, within the Order, from a pupil to their teacher, or towards certain senior members of the Order, in recognition of their wisdom. It denotes respect, not servility."

Anakin keeps his eyes on Qui-Gon, but the tension does recede a little, as he crouches to wipe his knife clean on the dead man's robes. 

For certain values of clean, at least; now that he's got time to notice, the probably-zabrak _reeks_.

A flick of the thumb, and the blade vanishes into the hilt, and the whole into a pocket somewhere. 

_Master, he's dangerous_ , Obi-Wan warns, as Qui-Gon approaches the body.

 _So are we,_ he sends back, meaning it as reassurance, but that was an up-close-and personal, bloody-handed kill from a boy younger than his Padawan, and not only did two Jedi and the opponent that was holding the pair of them to a standoff not see or sense him coming, but he doesn't seem rattled by it in the slightest. 

When he tosses his hood back, head high and proud, the collar's gone; there's blood on his neck. Not from the Zabrak. His own, perhaps. "So long as you don't expect it from us," he concedes, somewhat grudgingly.

"I don't," Qui-Gon assures him, although Force knows how the Temple will take _that_ ; he's saved from having to answer further, because Anakin's looking past him, life and emotion flooding back into him.

"Mom!" he cries, suddenly sounding like the adolescent he should still be; Qui-Gon turns to see Shmi, not far away; she's smiling, but there's sadness behind it, and worry, and oh, he thinks, this boy has been all of her joy and fear and sorrow, nothing kept for herself.

"Oh, Anakin," she says gently, and reaches out, so that he goes to her and steps into her arms.

They stand there for a long moment, leaving Obi-Wan to retrieve the float pallet with the hyperdrive parts - a dim shape in the sand a hundred metres away, just about visible now that the sky is beginning to lighten - and Qui-Gon to frown at the body of the probably-zabrak and face the thought he's been trying not to have.

A Force-user reeking of darkness; a lightsaber in a colour out of history books and midnight-whispered creche stories - and most of all, the training to _use_ it _._ Those signs are only pointing one way; he mouths the word almost involuntarily, like the curse it's become: _Sith_.

 

* * *

 

One dead body, two stolen-according-to-local-law slaves, and a float-pallet full of stolen-by-anybody's-laws hyperdrive components; no-one's inclined to argue that getting into orbit first and fixing the hyperdrive second isn't the best course of action.

Anakin lasts about five minutes before he leaves his mother - presumably in the observation lounge - and wanders down to the engine room. "Need another pair of hands?" He asks, propped in the doorway, and Obi-Wan looks up from where he, Niné - the one mechanic among the makeshift crew - and the surviving astromech droid are up to the elbows-or-equivalent in grease and hyperdrive parts.

Obi-Wan tries not to look too skeptical - or too wary - for the sake of good manners if nothing else, but it's difficult when the Force is still rippling with dark possibility and danger. Niné probably notices - she's pretty sharp - but pretends she doesn't; "if the hands come attached to someone who knows their way around a hyperdrive generator, then I'd love 'em," she says briskly. "You can pass me a sixteen-mil socket, for a start," she says, wriggling back underneath the generator casing; "some ruddy genius thought it was a good idea to use smaller nuts on the aft mounting pins."

Obi-Wan doesn't quite know what he's expecting, but it isn't this: a snort of amusement as the young man glances around for the socket-set case. "Every Nubian I've ever worked on has been the damn same;" he commiserates as he drops to one knee near where Niné's working. "I got you a twelve as well," he says, putting the sockets into her outstretched hand, "you'll probably need it for the damping plates."

 

Whatever else he is, or might yet be, he's a gifted mechanic, Obi-Wan will give him that much, and working together is surprisingly comfortable, given that his overall sense of unease hasn't slackened off much. 

Niné's clearly got a solid amount of engineering experience under her belt, too, though in her case that's less surprising; she also has a a solid couple of decades of _life_ experience on either of them. She does a quick once-over for loose parts as she strips off her dirty gloves, and calls out a clearly-habitual, "all hands clear of the hyperdrive bay," as she engages the controls to lower the drive into operating position.

She leaves the two of them cleaning up while she heads up to the cockpit to tell Olié they're ready to go; Obi-Wan counts three seconds after her footsteps disappear down the passageway before Anakin acts.

It's not the intimidation-attempt he's half expecting - using the Force to predict other Force-users' actions is unreliable, he knows that, he's _known_ that since the creche - the young man's skin and bones - rags and bones, almost literally - but he's all wiry muscle, and he's probably as tall as Obi-Wan if he ever stands up straight. And Obi-Wan, a few months shy of twenty standard, is _well_ aware of his own youthful appearance; it's been help and hindrance in equal measure on missions with his master.

But Anakin doesn't try anything of the sort; stays on the far side of the room, shoulders hunched, hands bunched in a dry rag, arrested in the movement of scrubbing engine dirt from his skin - there's a box of disposable gloves on the side, but perhaps he never noticed them. 

"Tell me the truth," he says, and the comfortable competence has gone from his voice, leaving him sounding as young as Obi-Wan suddenly feels, " _are_ you a free man?"

It's a serious question; Obi-Wan pays him the respect of answering him seriously. "Yes," and then, because that doesn't seem enough, "on my honour as a Jedi and a padawan of the Order, I swear it."

 

He lifts his eyes, looks like he's about to ask something else, just briefly, but the roar and lurch as the hyperdrive fires - fixing it is one thing; tuning it for passenger comfort would have been a much longer job - cuts him off; his eyes go wide, for a moment, and underneath that roiling mess of bitterness and fear there's something that might be wonder.

They stow the last few tools in silence that's partly awkwardness and partly enforced by the hyperdrive noise; pass their hands through the tiny sonic unit in the corner and head topside.

Anakin peels off as they pass the observation lounge, going to his mother, who's standing with both hands on the rail, looking out at the vastness of space; Obi-Wan finds himself lingering in the doorway for a moment before hurrying on to the cockpit to find his master.

 

* * *

 

Qui-Gon is troubled - deeply troubled - but he musters up a smile for a dozen Naboo and one young Gungan, all giddy with the relief of a successful jump to hyperspace. He's turning away, starting to prioritise - the living come first, they must, even set against a threat such as the one he fears is hanging over them - when his padawan arrives, looking frankly exhausted and no less troubled than he himself.

"Good work with the hyperdrive, Obi-Wan," he inclines his head the appropriate angle for respect to a junior; his padawan is more mechanically competent at nineteen standard than Qui-Gon - at sixty standard, solidly into middle-age and always more inclined to the living, the breathing, and the growing - will probably ever be.

"Thank you -" Obi-Wan cuts himself off; _master_ echoes through the bond.

 _You've met our passenger, then?_ Qui-Gon enquires.

 _Master, I sense darkness in him_.

 _In him, or around him?_ He prompts, then sighs and says aloud, "get some rest, padawan. And meditate on the matter - in whichever order you prefer. I certainly intend to." 

He wishes there was more he could do - his padawan's worry is bleeding through the training bond, and a padawan who may well be the first in generations to have faced a Sith lord deserves better than this dismissal. But he's prioritising, he has to, uncomfortably aware of the other young man, whom he's carried away from everything he's ever known towards an uncertain future, and who's _also_ faced - and _killed_ , blast it - that same possibly-Sith, and is dealing with it all without benefit of a young life's worth of Jedi training.

Perhaps this inner conflict, this unkind choice, is the reason their forebearers decreed that a master should have only one padawan.

 

He finds them in the observation lounge, standing together at the window, her hand resting in the small of his back as though perhaps to reassure herself that he's there; he turns, breaking away from her, the moment Qui-Gon steps through the doorway, and she follows the movement.

"Quite a sight, isn't it," he gestures towards the window.

Her smile is faint. "One I haven't seen in over three decades. I was only a little girl when our clan-convoy was taken."

"You were Trader-kin?" He's surprised, though he's not sure why he should be; it's not the first time he's heard tell of pirates picking off Trader clan-convoys. It's one of the reasons the Trade Federation have amassed the power they have, he suspects. "[Greetings,]" he tries, in the Trader-tongue he and Obi-Wan have been trying to learn together - it seemed an appropriate study for a Trader-born padawan, even if opportunities to use it are rare - and watches her guarded expression break into a smile even as Anakin tenses up.

"[I am a daughter of the Walkers of the Sky, called Shmi,]" she responds, making the open-palmed gesture that he understands is a part of formal greeting. There are nuances to the language that he knows he hasn't grasped yet, suffixes and options for word-order that the textbooks assure him are meaningless; he is coming to suspect hidden meaning, a way to pass secret warnings while speaking openly. 

He also suspects that while a Trader might one day be willing to teach Obi-Wan, they would certainly never countenance Qui-Gon learning their secrets.

In any case, Shmi speaks very plainly; perhaps because she's speaking to an outsider, or perhaps because she was too young to have learned the intricacies of the language. "Shmi Sky-walker, you would call me," she reverts to Basic, with a sideways glance at Anakin; Qui-Gon wonders if she ever had the chance to teach her son the language which should have been his birthright.

"I am Qui-Gon Jinn, of the Jedi Order - I apologise for not introducing myself earlier. My padawan - my student - is called Obi-Wan Kenobi." He'll leave it to Obi-Wan to decide whether he wants to share his birth-name.

 

There's something about Shmi that's nagging at him, and Anakin's as wary as a wounded wild thing; even a move so innocent as reaching for the pouch hidden in his robes gets an almost-flinch and eyes like a kel-hawk's watching him. 

He hands the stack of credit chips to Shmi, mostly because he's not sure Anakin will actually take them; watches her eyes go wide as she realises how much money she's holding. "This is -"

"A fair price for the hyperdrive components you obtained for us," he says carefully, eyes on Anakin, who's watching narrow-eyed and suspicious. Wondering, Qui-Gon realises, what he thinks he's _buying_ with his largesse.

A lifetime spent handling sensitive negotiations and still this conversation feels like a minefield. "I would not, in any event, have abandoned you to be penniless on Coruscant," he says carefully. "You are both welcome as my guests in the Temple for as long as you wish," no matter how many heads he has to knock together to make that so, "but I promised you freedom; all the choices you should have had, not merely the choice between my company and poverty."

Shmi is frozen, staring at the chips with her mouth half open, but Anakin lifts his face, defiance written in every line of his body and radiating into the Force, to meet Qui-Gon's eyes.

And that damned Force-driven proto-bond rears up again, this time with the sledgehammer impact of Anakin's will, Anakin's _choice_ driving it, and his shielding falters so that he feels as much as hears the words, "if you mean that, _prove_ it," and fails entirely with the sudden understanding that he isn't the only one who can feel how much this was _meant to be._

 

Fear isn't even the word for this. Too trivial. _Dread_ , perhaps, but even that understates the case, makes it too small, too personal. It rips through decades of carefully-maintained serenity. Knowledge of helplessness, knowledge of consequence, horror, outright terror - anger, too, of course, of course, _fear leads to anger_ and how could it _not_. Hate on the backwash, a sour taste on his tongue, bone-deep and ground-in and something in him starts to recoil but Shmi's eyes - sorrowful and anxious and loving - school him to compassion.

" _Master_?" It's Obi-Wan in the doorway, lightsaber in hand but unlit, shorter of breath than he should be, throwing everything on edge as Anakin's fear spikes hard in his head and all three of them turn - "master? What -"

Even with the universe set on its ear inside his head, Qui-Gon is the Jedi Master here, and that carries a certain responsibility; he permits himself only one long breath before he speaks, and forces his voice to steadiness. "Peace, padawan."

"But I felt -" he trails off, uncertain.

"There is no danger." He puts as much calm in his voice as he can muster, in the moment. "I -" the situation is too volatile, the padawan he once rejected - more fool he - is going to feel the new bond as another rejection, even if he manages to suppress it; he needs to be alone with Obi-Wan, he needs to be alone with Anakin, he can't send either of them away, can't send _any_ of them away - "one moment, please," he manages to say; turns away to the viewing port and the endlessness of space.

Breathes.

Quiets the turmoil in his soul.

Listens.

 

The part of him that's been guardian to a growing boy for seven standard years picks out a common thread from both bonds: hunger. Suppressed, in both cases; Obi-Wan is clinging to Jedi self-discipline as hard as he can, and for Anakin it is evidently habitual; he and his mother haven't an ounce of spare fat between them. 

He grasps at the thought like a lifeline, and when he turns, his thoughts and face are calm. "We should all eat," he suggests; "this ship has a rather fine chef-droid."

 

 _Rather fine_ is something of an understatement, even from the perspective of a Jedi master long inclined to mindfulness in simple matters such as the preparation of food; this is the queen's personal yacht, and while the ostentatiousness of Naboo royal dress is not entirely reflected in their cuisine, their commitment to quality certainly _is_. And Naboo's climate could hardly be further from arid Tattooine; those herbs and leafy vegetables which do not lend themselves to cold storage do very well in hydroponic beds.

The hospitality droid has remained supremely unflurried by their flight from Naboo - Qui-Gon suspects it lacks the programming to become agitated - and remains so in the face of unexpected guests. Having ascertained that they have no dietary requirements or preferences beyond those common to the majority of human and near-human species - Shmi's eyes are wide as saucers when the question is posed - it withdraws to the galley to produce a series of deceptively simple-seeming dishes. Rice, of course - the predominant staple for humans on most watery planets - delicately sauced vegetables, and a highly spiced shellfish soup that shocks the Jedi with its heat and the Tattooinians with the unfamiliar ingredients.

Jar-Jar - another perpetually-hungry adolescent, if the way he gravitates to the galley is any indicator - isn't so much oblivious to the tension at their table as determined to diffuse it; his irrepressible chatter veers from explanations of the various unfamiliar foodstuffs to anecdotes about fishing. Anakin's pretty much shut down, eating mechanically - the feel of his mind, through the bond, is much the same, closed-off, and Qui-Gon's certainly not going to push. Obi-Wan's not really paying attention, still on-edge and puzzling at what's wrong - if he's veering towards 'what have _I_ done wrong,' he's managing to keep it out of the bond. But Shmi seems to find the Gungan charming, and between his wild stories, the food, and the raucous table of off-duty crew playing cards on the other side of the room, there's certainly distraction enough to get them through the meal without having to broach any particularly uncomfortable topics.

It's the selection of fruit ices the droid brings out to finish the meal that really make Shmi's eyes go wide with wonder; Anakin doesn't react outwardly, but his mind's not _quite_ as guarded as his body-language, and a little flicker of sensual pleasure leaks through the bond. It's more of a relief than Qui-Gon realised it was going to be.

 

Padmé and Rabé pop up just as they're finishing the dessert, and Qui-Gon braces himself, but it turns out they're here to make his life easier, not not bring him new problems. They sweep the Skywalkers off with them - once everyone's finished eating - to show them the cabin the crew have found for them, and the rest of the ship's facilities, leaving him to take Obi-Wan back to their own quarters.

 

As soon as the cabin closes behind them Obi-Wan drops the pretence. "What's going on, Master?" 

"The Force itself willed that you should be my padawan," Qui-Gon prevaricates, knowing he's trying Obi-Wan's patience, but fearing these things must be said. "There was a time when I was blind to that; it was a wilful blindness, born of fear," it's easier than he thinks it will be, to say the words out loud. "That fear of mine coloured everything in our first years together, and it is the only thing I have ever regretted about this. Obi-Wan -" he hesitates. "I need you to be confident in that; to know that if I could turn back the clock, the only thing I would do differently is that I would not push you away."

Through the bond, he feels the reassurance sink in. It doesn't quite touch the knot of insecurity he's never been able to address, but it certainly eases the tension in his padawan's shoulders.

 

Obi-Wan's eyes on him are intent, and his voice is flat. "This is about Anakin, isn't it, master."

"Yes," and Qui-Gon takes a steadying breath; there is no gentle way to broach this. "What you felt was - more or less, the Force dropping a second training bond on my head."

"But master, the code -" _someone_ instilled an aversion to rule-breaking into the youngling Obi-Wan was, and his own early intransigence only served to convince his padawan that he must, in all things, be the perfect apprentice, the perfect Jedi.

Qui-Gon is less than perfect, and the world is less than perfect, but that doesn't seem to matter.

"Yes," Qui-Gon sighs. "The code. Which has stated for nearly a thousand years that a master shall have only one padawan. But what is the nature of the code?" He phrases it like a catechism, but it isn't one, and Obi-Wan frowns at him for it. "Is it a guide, or a cage to contain us?"

" _Master_?" Obi-Wan sounds troubled, and Qui-Gon berates himself inwardly for adding to his padawan's burdens. He sets a hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder and squeezes gently, projecting reassurance through the bond.

"Leave that one with me, Obi-Wan," he says gently. "You've done enough today." Two rescued slaves, a functioning hyperdrive, and a dead darksider in cold storage - _more_ than enough, really, by any reasonable measure.

 

Qui-Gon's tired enough that he settles on sleep rather than meditation, a decision he regrets when the Force and his own subconscious conspire to drop on him like a fall from great height. Somewhere in the small hours of ship-night he wakes suddenly out of a sound sleep, and it's only long practice at contorting his frame into too-small standard bunks that prevents him from cracking his skull on the upper bunk, where Obi-Wan is - thankfully - still sound asleep. 

He's not clear on what's woken him - bits and pieces of dreams still churning around in his head, fire and lightning and screaming - but he doubts he will find sleep again. As quietly as he can, he slips from between the blankets - snagging one to lay on the floor as a sop to the cold of space and the ache of old bones curled up in a too-small bunk - and folds himself into a meditative pose on the cabin floor.

Awareness unfolds like a morning flower. The passengers and crew are small bright points in the Force, most of them wrapped in the blue coolness of restful sleep. There's a troubling swirl of red-tinged darkness around the corpse in the storage locker, but that isn't what woke him. 

He thinks for a moment that the brighter flare in the direction of the galley is Anakin, but the bond suggests sleep, and his mind's muddled enough that it takes him a moment to put the pieces together: Shmi, of course. 

And with that, the thought that's been nagging at him finally coalesces: she's no Anakin, but she's easily strong enough in the Force that she should've been a Jedi herself. A crecheling, at the very least. And she said she was trader-born, and he _knows_ the traders test their children at birth. It's how Obi-Wan came to the temple, and a good handful of other Jedi of his acquaintance besides.

He clambers to his feet - and it is _clamber_ , much to his chagrin; the last few days have left him with aches and stiffness a plenty - and considers his robes. They don't _smell_ , at least - the sonics have taken care of that - but they aren't exactly clean any more, either. Too formal, anyway, he doesn't want to intimidate her; the tunic and leggings he's been sleeping in will do. He drapes the blanket around his shoulders for warmth before heading out into the corridor.

 

Shmi's back in the observation lounge, staring out at the passing stars, wrapped in a clean plain robe that he suspects passes for sleep-wear among the handmaidens; she turns her head when he enters, even though he's barefoot and trained to move quietly, and he isn't wondering why any more.

"Couldn't sleep?" He holds out one of the mugs he fetched from the galley; it's a herb blend tea, soothing and warming, and he very much doubts she will have thought to go there herself. Likely it never even occurred to her that she _could_.

"The noises are wrong," she admits, a little rueful, reaching out to wrap her hands around the mug. "She's a fine ship, but she's held together with spit and string right now, isn't she."

"You've a well-tuned ear," he remarks.

"I grew up shipboard," she brushes it aside, "one learns to listen."

Qui-Gon smiles. "Anakin comes by his mechanical aptitudes honestly, I would say. And - other things, perhaps. Were you tested for midi-chlorians, as a child?"

"Of course," she murmurs, as if surprised he's asking. "My people have given many sons and daughters to the Jedi, over the centuries. Two younger ship-cousins of mine went to the creche before…" she lets her voice trail off. 

"Yet you feel the Force, don't you?"

"Around Anakin, yes. Around you, too, of course. Why do you ask?"

"More than that, I think." He says, and promptly kicks himself. "My apologies. Anakin's strength in the Force is remarkable in itself, and the more so because -" he hesitates. "If midi-chlorian count at birth correlated directly to adult power, then one might reasonably expect the Outer Rim to be teeming with Force-sensitives, self-taught rogue powers. And that's simply not the case. It would appear that unless one's connection to the Force is somehow awoken, usually in early childhood, then that potential will -" he catches himself; Shmi is staring out at the stars again, lips pressed into a thin line.

" _Awoken,_ " she echoes.

"Yes. For Jedi -" he continues cautiously - "coming to the creche - the Temple is _utterly_ suffused with the Force. It's very comforting, actually."

"Anakin - was born awake," she says quietly. Takes an absent sip of her drink.

"Ah." He tries to make the sound convey sympathy. "It's not unheard of." Among Jedi mothers, he doesn't add. The Force is hinting, now, at dark possibility. "And you - have grown stronger, certainly, than your childhood potential might have indicated."

"They like to say adversity does that," she replies, lips tight.

"Rarely true, I've found," he murmurs. "And generally said by those who have little experience of true hardship."

She shrugs, and he can almost feel her shaking it off, packing memories away where she doesn't need to see them. "It was a long time ago."

There's nothing he can say that doesn't feel like prying, so he joins her at the window instead; lets his mind drift as they watch the stars.


End file.
